


the shape we take

by meansgirl



Series: all the time [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Begging, Biting, Bondage, Breathplay, Clothed Sex, Dom Mycroft Holmes, Dom/sub, Edging, Kissing, Light breathplay, M/M, Mild Painplay, Nipple Play, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prompt Fill, Rimming, Scratching, Shibari, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meansgirl/pseuds/meansgirl
Summary: “Is this a hint?”Greg looks up from his perusal of a half-finished crossword puzzle and removes the end of his pen from between his teeth. “Hints are usually subtle,” he says, and then returns to his newspaper.Mycroft snorts and leans a shoulder against the kitchen door jamb. He twists a length of black rope between his hands. His wrists slip into the loops he’s made, and then back out.“Will you ever simply ask me for the things you want?”*A smutty add-on to the 'all the time, i'll know' 'verse.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: all the time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903792
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84





	the shape we take

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dyedandknitted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyedandknitted/gifts).



> A prompt fill for DyedAndKnitted, who requested shibari rope bondage. I had never written it before, so this was interesting and fun while also a bit challenging! See end notes if you would like a little more detail on the tags/content!
> 
> This fic is set a couple of years after all the time, i'll know. The boys are far more communicative with each other in this fic than they ever were in that one. In that fic I referenced Mycroft tying Greg up shibari-style but didn't depict it in detail, so I thought it would be fun to glance in on them a bit down the line, now that they're settled together, and see how that might go :) 
> 
> Title comes from "Slip Away" by Perfume Genius.

“Is this a hint?” 

Greg looks up from his perusal of a half-finished crossword puzzle and removes the end of his pen from between his teeth. “Hints are usually subtle,” he says, and then returns to his newspaper. 

Mycroft snorts and leans a shoulder against the kitchen door jamb. He twists a length of black rope between his hands. His wrists slip into the loops he’s made, and then back out. “Will you ever simply  _ ask _ me for the things you want?” 

“I ask for things all the time,” Greg disagrees, and carefully fills in the answer to 23-Down. “I can’t help it if you wanted a sugar baby and got me instead.”

Mycroft scoffs and vacates the doorway. “You are insufferable,” he says, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Love you,” Greg calls back absently, and wonders if he could get away with calling Mycroft back to help him with 27-Across. 

  


*

  


Not all the time, but sometimes, it’s fun to make it a game. Greg’s done this before - left something out in an odd place, or just on Mycroft’s pillow, like the rope, as a subtle challenge or request. Mycroft’s response depends on what it is. 

Once, Greg left a calendar on Mycroft’s desk, open to June with the first week circled, and Mycroft simply booked the trip and forwarded the details to Greg’s work email. 

Another time, Greg ordered a bunch of body-safe candles and left them in the center of the dining table. He then had to wait for over a week, during which Mycroft made several pointed comments, usually while Greg was naked and Mycroft’s fingers were tracing seemingly aimless paths, that never resulted in hot wax being applied anywhere. 

When it finally happened, Greg was so keyed up that he shook the entire time. 

Greg took to walking around naked, wearing his favorite of the growing collection of leather harnesses in the wardrobe, at the most inopportune times. Mycroft had taken to working from home some evenings, and while Greg generally respected his space and concentration, there came a point in the evening where a simple text to Anthea could tell Greg that the man was just overdoing it, and a distraction would be welcome. 

And Mycroft hated talking to his mother on the phone, so Greg refused to feel guilty for crossing his field of view after thirty or so minutes of the most one-sided chat he’d ever overheard in his life, and lost no sleep over the violent blush that had exploded over Mycroft’s face as he stuttered out excuses and hung up the phone. 

Greg had been unceremoniously bent over the sideboard in the dining room and fucked mercilessly until he cried, Mycroft’s hand in an iron-grip around the back strap of the harness holding him exactly where he wanted him. 

Basically, the game is always fun. Greg always comes out the winner. 

But in this case, Mycroft doesn't mention the rope again. In fact, he goes for a last minute work trip two weeks later, and when he returns he doesn't make a move  _ at all.  _ As in - zero. Nothing. They haven’t seen each other in more than ten days. This would usually mean sex in  _ some  _ form, but nothing happens this time.

Greg can understand it the first night. The man is jet lagged and pinched around the eyes; negotiations clearly had not gone well. Greg had been more than willing, happy even, to simply drag Mycroft into bed and rub his temples for him til they both fell asleep. 

But he really expects something to happen the next day, or over that weekend. Mycroft had packed his bag, kissed Greg goodbye, and then said - with a firm hand holding Greg by the chin: “Absolutely no orgasms without me.” 

That’s usually a pretty good indicator that Greg’s in for it once Mycroft gets back. 

And yet. Nothing happens.

Nothing. 

  


*

  


Greg hasn’t come in weeks, now. It’s starting to leave the realm of annoying-but-promising and therefore tolerable, and is entering unbearable-and-infuriating territory. He’s been trying not to chew his nails down to stumps, but it’s a losing battle. 

“Are you quite well?” Mycroft asks mildly one Friday evening. 

They’ve decided to stay in. Greg’s had a shit week, in part because he’s on edge, a little touch deprived and a lot annoyed, and in part because work has been a bit breakneck with budget talks dominating most of his time. Mycroft had insisted quiet was all he wanted as well, and even locked the home office before six tonight, claiming he had reading to catch up on. 

Greg glares at him from where he’s been pacing, television remote in hand. He’d long given up on finding something on Netflix and had abandoned the idea in favor of abusing his fingernails and wearing a path in the carpet. He taps the remote against his thigh, unable to stop the nervous twitch of his wrist. 

“I’m fine,” he says.

“Are you certain?” Mycroft doesn't even look up from his book. He turns a page, slow, with the licked tip of one finger. “You seem restless.”

“You aren’t funny,” Greg mutters, and tosses the remote at the sofa before crossing to the window so he can contemplate why he even  _ likes _ Mycroft Holmes while watching the London skyline. The view from their lounge is spectacular.  _ Well,  _ he thinks,  _ the nice digs don’t hurt.  _

“You’re upset with me,” Mycroft says, close to Greg’s ear, having moved without sound.

Greg’s eyes refocus on their blurry reflection in the glass. “You think?”

Mycroft’s hands are gentle on Greg’s waist. “Why are you upset with me?”

Greg allows himself to be tugged back against Mycroft’s chest. He tries not to shiver. They’ve not touched any less chastely than this in weeks. All he wants is to tip his head back onto Mycroft’s shoulder and beg, but he’s annoyed and feeling stubborn, so he doesn't. 

“You know why.”

Mycroft lays one hand flat on Greg’s belly. “Are you frustrated?”

Greg grits his teeth. 

“Desperate?” Mycroft tries, stroking his hand in a gentle circle. His mouth descends on Greg’s neck, just above the collar of his t-shirt. “Hm?”

“You’ve been neglectful,” Greg tries. “And you know it.”

“Have I?” Mycroft kisses a featherlight line up to Greg’s ear, and nips it. “I’m so sorry.”

“You aren’t.”

“No.” Mycroft’s hand slides sideways off his abdomen. He holds Greg firmly, fingers clenching tightly over his hip. He rocks Greg’s backside back against himself as his other hand closes carefully around Greg’s throat. 

Greg sighs and hums, unwilling to say anything. 

“Did it occur to you,” Mycroft asks, simply stroking, not applying any pressure, “that I might have a plan in mind?”

“It occurred to me.” Greg tries to press back more, but Mycroft holds him still. “But I stopped caring around the time you told me I wasn’t allowed to come and then left me hanging for weeks.”

“And yet you haven’t said anything.”

Greg stays loose and pliant, allowing Mycroft’s fingers to give gentle direction against the tender skin of his throat, urging Greg to tilt this way or that. Mycroft sucks at his pulse point and Greg watches it happen in the window. 

“If I had said something,” he says once Mycroft moves on to biting gently at the corner of his jaw, “you would’ve just smacked my arse and made me wait longer.”

“Clever boy,” Mycroft mumbles, and Greg feels him smiling against his skin.

“You must be just as tightly wound as me,” Greg muses, sighing as Mycroft’s fingers squeeze around his airway, just a tiny bit. 

“What makes you say that?”

Greg blinks his unfocused eyes. “I… you... Oh, you bastard.” 

“The rule did not apply to me,” Mycroft says, voice low against the shell of Greg’s ear. “Did it?”

“No.” Greg grits his teeth. “Guess not.”

Mycroft clucks at him. “Now, now. You will thank me later, I promise you.”

“If you say so,” Greg mutters. 

In a flash, a split second, he finds himself shoved away, yanked around by the arm to face Mycroft. His back hits the window with force. Good thing the panes in this house are all triple-thick and bulletproof. Greg grunts and then tries to gasp, only to find it cut in two by the harsh grip of Mycroft’s hand around his throat. 

“I do say so,” Mycroft says, low and smooth - dangerous. His face is tucked close up against Greg’s, and Greg can’t see his eyes. “And you had better start showing your gratitude now, or else you may find yourself ending this weekend more frustrated that you began it.” 

Greg shudders and grips the window sill behind him to keep from pawing at Mycroft; to keep himself upright, rather than try and sink to his knees to babble and plead. “Sorry,” he says with what little air he has. “I’m sorry.” 

Mycroft’s hand gentles around his neck. “That’s quite alright,” he murmurs. “Of course it’s alright, darling, I know you aren’t quite yourself at the moment. You’ll be good for me now, won’t you?”

Greg nods, shivering at the edge of threat in the words, and Mycroft’s hand shifts, his fingers holding Greg’s chin in their grip and turning his face for a kiss, soft and fleeting. 

“Good,” he says. “In a moment, I want you to go upstairs and take a shower. Get ready for me. When I come upstairs I expect you to be kneeling on our bed, facing away from the door. Understood?”

“Yes,” Greg whispers, heart hammering. He licks his lips. If he was just a little less breathless, a little less achingly hard, he might be grinning, saying something cheeky. But he keeps his focus and nods and moves away from Mycroft carefully. He keeps his hands to his sides and his eyes cast down. “Kiss me before I go?” 

Mycroft huffs a laugh. “Needy,” he admonishes, but he does tip Greg’s head back, granting him the kind of kiss he wants - deep, invasive, and clutching. 

Greg’s hands form fists at his side. He takes the kiss, lets it be taken from him, and when it’s over he knows his mouth is red and his pupils are blown. 

“Lovely,” Mycroft sighs, tracing his thumb over Greg’s lower lip. “Now, go.”

Greg goes. Mycroft delivers a practiced slap to his arse as he does. Greg lets himself grin then. 

  


*

  


A little while later, thoroughly clean and still a little damp around the edges, Greg waits. 

And waits 

By the time the bedroom door opens with a light squeak, he’s getting a hint of that pins-and-needles feeling in his feet from sitting back on his heels for so long. When the door opens, Greg rises into a straight-backed kneel and tucks his hands behind his back with his wrists crossed. 

Footsteps do not proceed across the bedroom. Greg keeps his head tipped down, the back of his neck exposed to Mycroft’s view, and waits. 

“You look lovely.” 

Greg smiles to himself. “Thanks.” 

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

Mycroft does move then. Greg listens to his footsteps but does not turn to watch him. The armoire opens with its usual clunk. 

“Stay still,” Mycroft says. Greg can hear him shuffling through hangers and drawers. 

“I am,” Greg assures him, and closes his eyes. Breathes and relaxes.

Mycroft’s hand is warm on his shoulder. “Good,” he says. He squeezes there, and then trails light fingertips down Greg’s spine, to the base of it and then back up, teasing and tracing along his hairline. He tickles his fingers across to Greg’s left ear, the edge of his jawline, because he knows that makes Greg shiver. 

Greg tilts his head, hoping for Mycroft’s mouth to follow the same path, but it doesn't. Instead, the mattress dips with Mycroft’s weight as he sits on the edge, just out of Greg’s peripheral vision. Once Greg has checked this, he closes his eyes again. He hears the faint rustle, the whisper of material on material as items are sorted and laid out. And then stillness. 

From the sound of Mycroft’s voice when he speaks, he isn’t even looking at Greg. 

“I plan to tie both legs, eventually,” he says. “I was wondering if you wished to have your wrists immobilized as well.” 

“Yes,” Greg says instantly. “Please.”

“Very good,” Mycroft says, clearly pleased with that answer, and Greg preens a little as the mattress moves again. “Stay upright. We’ll start with the wrists.”

They dispensed with phrases like  _ yes, sir _ from the start, but sometimes… sometimes Greg would just love to say it. Maybe sometime in the future he’ll hint at that, too. Drop hints about his idle uniform-related fantasies. He’d bet money Mycroft could easily source all sorts of military garb. In this moment, though, he simply straightens his spine and waits. 

Mycroft leaves the bed and Greg listens to him stretch and move, the little sounds of things being gathered, then opens his eyes when he feels Mycroft join him again. 

“Wrists.” He taps the left, but Greg extends both. “You know,” he says, looping rope around the left wrist “asking for things doesn't always require a theatrical production.”

“You like it when it is one,” Greg says, eyes open to watch the process as Mycroft folds the rope into a loop to hold his right wrist as well, threading the ends through the first bit of rope, and deftly stitching it into an elegant knot that settles between Greg’s hands.

“I do,” Mycroft acknowledges. “I also like it when I can simply give you what would make you most happy.”

Mycroft moves off the bed in order to circle around for more rope. He gives Greg an experimental push from behind. Greg sways forward, but corrects his balance and doesn't fall forward. 

“You’re hard for me,” Mycroft says, laying more lengths of rope just in front of Greg’s knees on the bed.

Greg just barely catches himself before he looks down to check. The careful motions of Mycroft’s hands, the gentle pressure of the ropes, and the competent tug at the knots, have all lulled him into a rather clueless headspace. He’s been turned on for so long, hard or not, that it barely registered that his body was responding that way now. 

“Mm,” Greg says, noncommittal, and carefully keeps his joined hands away from his erection, though not that it’s been pointed out to him he’s desperate to give himself a stroke. 

Mycroft lets out a breath of amusement, and moves away from the bed entirely.

Greg keeps his eyes open, and waits. He listens to the familiar sound of him removing his tie, his cufflinks - tiny clinks into a little crystal dish on the dresser - and rolling up his sleeves. Mycroft reappears, a little softened by the dressing down, but otherwise fully clothed and off-limits to Greg’s eyes. And, of course, to his hands. Greg’s wrists twist a little in their bindings, just at the thought of reaching out and getting the rest of it off Mycroft, even if he has to use his teeth to do it.

Mycroft joins him on the bed, facing him and sitting up against the headboard. His long legs stretch out before him and his arms cross, one elbow resting on the opposite, a thoughtful finger tracing over his chin. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He  _ knows _ what that does to Greg.

“You look fantastic like this,” Mycroft tells him.

Greg lifts his chin in order to make eye contact. He shrugs one shoulder. 

Mycroft smiles, and the side of his leg shifts, touching Greg’s calf. He’s warm, even through the fabric of his trousers. 

“What was it you wanted, when you left me the ropes?”

Greg quirks an eyebrow, tries not to smirk, and shrugs again. 

“I see,” Mycroft murmurs. “Just this, then? Shall I simply observe you all night?”

“If you like,” Greg replies. His voice is raspy, nearly choked with anticipation. “If that’s what you want.”

Mycroft shrugs back at him and peruses him with his eyes. “Perhaps it is.” 

Greg meets his gaze and bites down on his own sideways smile. He knows that’s not what Mycroft wants. He doesn't know what he  _ does _ want, but he knows he won’t be left like this. Mycroft doesn't go to a lot of trouble for little reward. Greg’s pretty sure the last few weeks qualify as ‘a lot of trouble.’ 

Mycroft considers Greg for a moment, his thumb sweeping back and forth over his own lips - as if he’s lost in thought, though Greg would bet that Mycroft’s had this all thought out for weeks. Then he shifts and opens his trousers, eyes never leaving Greg’s body, tracing over him, lingering on the ties at his wrists.

Greg watches as he palms himself through his underwear. “You like me like this,” he says.

Mycroft presses the heel of his hand to the base of his erection and shakes his head. “Don’t be obvious.”

“Sorry,” Greg murmurs, even though he isn’t, at all. “I’m an obvious sort of bloke. Will you take it out? Let me see?”

Mycroft does it without teasing, reaching into his pants and pushing the waistband out of the way so that his cock is on display. He makes a show of playing about with his foreskin, not revealing the head just yet, though Greg knows it’ll be red and shining. 

“Pretty,” Greg remarks, not moving a muscle. 

“Thank you,” says Mycroft. He strokes himself idly, not gripping, but simply skimming his palm over the underside. 

Greg watches and chews on the insides of his cheeks. He wants to say all sorts of filthy things; he could sit here all tied up and talk Mycroft through an orgasm. That might be fun. He could offer up his hands. Even bound wrist-to-wrist, he could wrap them around Mycroft’s length. 

But it’s not his show. 

He could try it. It might even be welcome. 

Or it might lead to a firm slap. 

It might get him a dry chuckle. 

Or nothing at all. 

Greg’s more interested in seeing what Mycroft does than he is in seeing how he would react. 

His own cock throbs between his legs and his palms sweat. 

Mycroft makes himself comfortable and draws one leg up, bending his knee and letting it splay to the side. He sighs, and finally circles his fingers around his cock before he strokes. He hums with it. “What are you thinking?” 

Greg shakes his head, casting his eyes down. “Just that I want whatever you’ll give me,” he says. 

“Really?”

“Mmhm.”

Mycroft shifts. When Greg looks up through his lashes he can see that his hips are hitching in slow, tiny movements, thrusting carefully into his own fist. Greg swallows hard. 

“What if I wished to fuck your throat and then leave this room?”

Greg flicks his eyes up, meeting Mycroft’s curious gaze. He’ll never get over how calm Mycroft can be, even as he’s jerking himself off and staring at the man he’s meticulously twisting into a desperate mess.

He licks his lips. “If that’s what you want,” he says, not bothering to keep out of his voice how very unlikely he thinks that is. 

Mycroft smiles. “Maybe I won’t leave the room, at least.”

Greg’s mouth falls open, and he licks his lower lip. Mycroft laughs. 

“You are shameless.”

Greg nods, agreeing, and makes a point of licking his lower lip again, a lush, obvious sweep of tongue. It’s an invitation:  _ Come here, then. _

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, still rubbing himself, thumb and forefinger teasing just below the head of his cock, peeking out and shiny with precome. 

“Gonna fuck me while I”m like this?”

“Possibly. If you’re lucky.”

Greg grins. “Yeah, well, that goes without saying.” 

Mycroft sits up from the slump he’s fallen into. “Are you comfortable enough?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t move.”

Mycroft moves, sitting up entirely and leaning forward, rising up to his own knees and catching Greg around the shoulders as he brings his mouth down, tongue and teeth, on Greg’s. 

Greg groans into it, glad to have his mouth filled. He wants Mycroft’s cock, but his tongue will do for now. It’s good, too, to feel Mycroft holding him up, one firm hand steadying him so that he isn’t jostled into tipping over. It’s good to be held in place and kissed. Used. Greg has to grit his teeth against the strength of the next wave of want that crashes over him when he thinks that. 

Mycroft doesn't touch his cock, but he touches all the rest, hand sweeping up Greg’s side. He finds Greg’s nipples and circles both at once with his fingers. Greg can’t arch into it; can’t do anything at all, if he wants to follow the instruction given to him. 

“Feels good,” he tells Mycroft, who responds by pinching and twisting, just a little. 

Greg whimpers and twitches, body instinctively curling into the tiny points of pain. Mycroft’s hand leaves his left nipple to shove his shoulder and force him upright again. 

“Careful,” he snaps, pinching with his fingernails at the right nipple. 

“Sorry,” Greg gasps. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Stay still,” Mycroft says softly, watching his own fingers, touching lightly again. “I want you to hold yourself very still.” 

Greg shivers with the spread of gooseflesh at the gentle, teasing touch. “Okay.” 

The pinch comes to the left side now, and a harsh twist follows. 

Greg whines in his throat, but doesn't curl into it or rock away. He keeps still. The tension makes him shake.

“Good,” Mycroft says. His hand moves, nails scratching down Greg’s ribcage and then his thigh, before moving up again, leaving red lines all along that side of Greg’s body. 

He can’t help twitching. It feels good, the skin going hot where it’s been scratched - not hard enough to break skin, of course, but just enough to make it all feel extra sensitive - and Greg would normally be trying to throw his body toward the sensation. 

Mycroft sits back on his heels, a hand to the center of Greg’s chest, as if holding them apart. His eyes rake over Greg’s reddened skin, and with his other hand he strokes himself again. 

“Lovely,” he murmurs, and the hand on Greg’s chest moves away then returns at his knee, stroking sweetly up his thigh toward Greg’s cock, which twitches at the potential for contact. Mycroft doesn't touch him there, though. “Lie back.”

Mycroft helps, since Greg’s balance is a little off without his arms.

“Over your head,” Mycroft orders. 

Greg’s hands move without a thought, stretching above his head. Mycroft uses another length of rope attached to the foot of the bed and looped around a metal ring, to catch Greg’s wrists, holding his arms snugly. The last two ropes are tossed to drape over Greg’s thighs, teasing him with their weight.

“Look at you,” Mycroft murmurs once he finishes anchoring the wrists. He kneels at Greg’s side and strokes himself with one hand while the other touches Greg lightly, palm gentle as it skims over the planes of Greg’s chest and belly. 

Mycroft makes quite the picture, like this - bespoke trousers hanging open, waistcoat still on but shirt in disarray, eyes intent and analytical even as he’s carefully holding himself back thrusting into his own hand. Greg wants to put his mouth all over Mycroft’s lovely forearms. Wants to lick and bite, feel the shifting tendons and joints in his wrist and in the bend of his elbow as he touches himself. It makes his mouth water. 

“Bend your legs.” 

Greg does, and Mycroft tilts one of them to the side, a hand on the inside of Greg’s knee spreading him wide so he can lean back and observe all that is exposed by the position. His hand moves from Greg’s thigh to the crease where his arse begins. He trails his fingertip across the soft, sensitive skin, then brushes, dry and catching, between Greg’s cheeks and over his hole. 

“Mmph.” Greg lets his other leg fall open, too. He knows that it’s the same as begging, and he doesn't care. 

“You are gorgeous,” Mycroft murmurs, knee-walking sideways, shifting around on the mattress until he’s settled between Greg’s spread legs. “Bend them completely,” he says, and picks up a rope that’s slipped down Greg’s thighs to rest in the cradle of his hips. 

The tying is done in silence, right leg first and then the left. In the end, Mycroft goes with a basic futomomo, a lattice of rope with a series of neat knots in a line down the side, between Greg’s calves and the backs of his thighs. Lying like this, he’s completely at Mycroft’s mercy. He can move his legs together and apart, but that’s it. He could get his feet flat for leverage against the mattress, if he really wanted to or Mycroft told him to. Mycroft’s fingers test the ropes, slipping under and tugging. He opens Greg further to his own eyes, and his hooked fingers also pull Greg’s legs higher toward his chest, lifting his feet off the mattress, leaving him exposed and a bit trapped. 

Greg lets himself be posed. He has to remember to just move where Mycroft puts him, and not fling his thighs wide as they’ll go, wanton. 

Mycroft shoves a pillow under him, keeping him propped up where he wants him.

“You trimmed here.” 

Greg gasps as Mycroft’s fingers trace up the inside of his groin, running over the neatly groomed hair. 

“A little.”

Mycroft places his hand in an L-shape, thumb brushing just under Greg’s balls, fingers to the right of his cock. Still not touching him even as Greg’s cock twitches, hopeful. “Very nice,” he murmurs. “Are you going to tell me what you want out of this?”

“No.”

Mycroft sighs, put-upon. “Very well. Close your eyes.”

Greg carefully doesn't smile, and obeys. 

And he waits. He doesn't hear a thing. Not a rustle of fabric, not a squeak of bed springs. Mycroft’s hand remains pressed there in the crease of Greg’s thigh. He doesn't move. Greg’s just about ready to risk asking Mycroft if everything is alright, when the hand lands on his airway again. It happens quickly, lightly. One second all of Greg’s focus is on the touches below the belt, and the next, there are fingers around his throat as well. He arches into it as much as he can with his feet off the bed and his arms above him. There’s no leverage, but he lets his head fall back and tries his best to press up into Mycroft’s touch. 

The hand leaves his thigh, and Mycroft shifts, knees moving snug against the backs of Greg’s thighs, fabric of his trousers soft and the bite of his zip not so much where it digs into Greg’s skin. But Mycroft simply positions himself there. Doesn't press close so they can rub together - god, Greg would love that - and doesn't touch Greg with lube-slick fingers, though it would be  _ fantastic _ if Mycroft wanted to fuck Greg like this, him fully clothed and Greg naked and trussed up. Greg shivers at the thought. But there is nothing, and then— 

Greg knows his face is doing a pinchy thing, eyebrows pulling together and mouth frowning. “Are you—”

Mycroft sighs, and he shifts against Greg a little, and for a fleeting second, the backs of his knuckles brush the hot, flushed shaft of Greg’s cock - they brush him as Mycroft’s hand moves, stroking himself in earnest. Greg can hear the sound of it, and the subtle shift in Mycroft’s body that’s gone rhythmic. 

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Greg snaps, furious that he isn’t being touched. He nearly opens his eyes, but Mycroft hasn’t told him to, so he doesn't. 

The hand at his throat tightens. “What was that?”

“Sorry,” Greg gasps, but they both know he’s pushing into it again, practically begging for more and tighter. They both know he’s not really sorry. “Sorry.”

“You aren’t,” Mycroft says, as if he laments it, as if he has no idea what to do with Greg, who is so defiant and unapologetic. 

Greg has to bite his lip to keep from grinning, trying to stay furious and missing it by a long distance. “You’re going to get yourself off and come on me, is that it? That’s all?”

_ “That’s all,” _ Mycroft mocks, and suddenly his hand  _ is  _ on Greg’s cock. 

Greg can only clench his legs tight against Mycroft’s hips, his wrists yanking at their ties without meaning to as his body is rocked by that first hot touch. 

“Ohjesus—” Greg’s mouth falls open, his words cut off by a stuttering groan as Mycroft jerks him hard and fast. It’s too dry, but  _ god, _ still so good. He’s almost regained some equilibrium, starting to really enjoy it and welcome his rapidly approaching orgasm, when Mycroft stops and lets go of him abruptly. Greg whines. 

“Open your eyes,” Mycroft says, the hand at Greg’s throat having gone lax. The fingers stroke gently over Greg’s Adam's apple and up along his jaw. It’s a loving touch; it’s sweet. 

Greg opens his eyes and nearly slams them shut again at the way Mycroft’s have gone dark and intent. Greg loves that, loves him like this. For a split second he’s sure he’s about to become the first man to ever come just from  _ eye contact.  _

He keeps them open, though. Mycroft pets him some more, hand soothing over Greg’s shoulders and chest. “Good,” he says, very quietly. “You see where I’m going with this. I’ll touch your cock if and when the mood strikes.”

Greg nods, frantic. “Okay.”

“You don’t come unless I have told you that you may.” 

“Okay.” This time it comes out strained, just the words Mycroft’s saying making him desperate.

“Do you need your ropes adjusted?” Mycroft’s hand skims down from his chest and toy with the knot closest to Greg’s left knee. “Are you comfortable?”

“I’m not  _ comfortable,” _ Greg says wryly. “But the ropes are good.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You are, as usual, very funny.” His hand skims back up, and then his nalls scratch back down the center of Greg’s chest, startling him into a stuttering gasp. Mycroft's other hand works his own cock slowly, idly. At the end of their harsh path, the fingers scratching down Greg’s torso brush over his cock, glancing off. Greg jerks into it, trying to chase the fleeting touch. He can’t; doesn't have any range of motion.

Greg whimpers a little. “Oh, god.”

“You’re doing beautifully.” 

“Mm.” 

Mycroft circles the base of Greg’s cock with his thumb and forefinger, holding tight. “You can do this for me, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Greg says, breathless, and nods. “I can do it, I want to.”

“I know you do.” Mycroft releases his cock and reaches up to gently pinch his nipple instead. 

Greg shudders. He fucking  _ loves _ having his nipples played with, and Mycroft’s long, exacting fingers do it so well. “Yeah,” he murmurs, wishing he could move and liking that he can’t. Mycroft’s hips pin him up and open, and the tension in the tie anchoring him to the bed is just taut enough to force his upper body into a bit of a stretch. It makes him more aware of every expansion of his lungs, every heave of his chest, and of how even just twitching can spark a little bit more exertion on his shoulders. And, if Mycroft wanted, he could tighten his hand and make breathing very hard, indeed. 

Greg isn’t entirely sure he wouldn't be able to come just from thinking about  _ that. _

Mycroft hums and lowers his mouth to Greg’s chest, which means that he rests his weight on Greg. His cock, sheathed in his own hand, is right up against Greg’s, snug. The pressure of his knuckles there is a little painful, but it’s friction, and Greg will take it. He’s greedy for it. He moans and then sobs as a few idle kisses pressed to his skin turn into a circle of bites around first one nipple, and then the other. 

Greg can’t concentrate on individual sensations. Mycorft’s trousers rub at the backs of his thighs, and the zipper still scrapes; he feels the discomfort of Mycroft’s weight pushing his knuckles down into Greg’s cock, and bright, zinging heat where Mycroft’s mouth leaves him red and sensitive. Mycroft’s thumb sweeps gently against his throat before the hand moves away.

“Oh, please,” he pants when Mycroft straightens, rubbing roughly over his handiwork - fingers irritating the bite marks. “Please, love,  _ please.” _

“No,” Mycroft breathes, and holds on tightly to Greg’s knee as he strokes himself in earnest. His eyes scan Greg’s body, lingering over the places he seems to like the most - puffy nipples surrounded by abraded skin; straining shoulders, bitten lips. There is red high in his cheeks, and his hair is mussed, even if the rest of him is still mostly impeccable. 

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft doesn't answer. He leans back and ducks his head, watches his own hand moving from Greg’s knee to between his legs, ignoring his dripping cock and instead cupping, proprietary, over one bottock, spreading it to the side. 

It feels obscene and weird and uncomfortable. Without Mycroft’s thighs keeping his legs pushed up, Greg’s muscles are strained with the effort of holding himself where he’s wanted. Greg gulps down air. He watches Mycroft’s eyes, calculating, and his mouth, a little twisted where he’s clearly biting the inside of his lower lip. 

Mycroft glances up and smirks before offering his fingers. “Suck. Get them wet.”

“Oh, god, I don’t think—”

“Is there a problem?”

“Mycroft, I’m  _ dying _ here—”

Mycroft  _ laughs.  _ “You’re fine,” he says, dismissive and as high handed as ever. He wiggles two long fingers near Greg’s lips. “Now suck them.”

Greg whimpers, and does it. It’s seconds before he’s sucking Mycroft’s fingers like he’s giving the blowjob of his life, tongue sweeping and lips sucking, trying to take them further, trying to gag on them just to get Mycroft where he lives (because Mycroft  _ loves _ when Greg chokes on him). But too soon the fingers are gone and Greg is left panting with his head tipped back between his aching shoulders, his stretched arms starting to burn. 

Mycroft’s fingers are wet and sloppy over Greg’s hole, and then one presses in just a little, but without any gentleness and only Greg’s spit for lube. 

Greg gasps. “Ow—” 

“Don’t fret,” Mycroft says. “That was mostly for my benefit. A show.” 

“Hnngh,” is all Greg can manage. 

“Now hold still again, darling,” Mycroft murmurs. 

It’s then that Greg realizes Mycroft has started stroking himself again, and now he’s playing with Greg’s arsehole, watching his own fingers tease and dip just barely inside. Greg watches Mycroft watching himself teasing Greg’s body to the point of ultimate frustration, and decides if he’s going to get cheeky, now’s the time.

“Gonna come, love?” 

Greg grins when Mycroft’s gaze flicks up toward his face. 

“Hm? Are you?”

“I’ll gag you,” Mycroft threatens. 

Greg only grins wider. “You won’t.” He wriggles his hips, flexes his ankles and the muscles crossed by rope. “Come on me,” he says, in a voice he knows goes straight to Mycroft’s hindbrain. “Come on my hole, make a mess of me, Mycroft.” 

“Shut. Up,” Mycroft grits out. 

Greg laughs. “No,” he says. “Gag me, if you really mean that. Otherwise, make a mess all over me and then shove it into me with your fingers. I want it, Mycroft,  _ please.” _

Mycroft’s mouth falls open. 

“Yeah, come on,” Greg encourages, knowing he’s got him right where he wants him.

Mycroft shoots him a glare, even as Greg sees his chest hitch with his breath. “You’ll pay for this,” he promises, shaky.

_ “Good,” _ Greg says.

Mycroft groans deep in his chest, then leans forward, hand steadying himself on Greg’s knee. He groans when he comes, hot stripes landing over Greg’s belly, groin, and cock. 

Greg has no problem at all ‘paying’ for something that good, for the furious pleasure on Mycroft’s face. 

“Gorgeous,” Greg says, meaning it wholeheartedly. 

“No more talking from you,” Mycroft growls, and then Greg’s thighs are shoved up higher, open further, and Mycroft disappears between them. 

Greg lets out a shaky groan as Mycroft’s tongue presses flat against his hole in a lush swipe. “Oh, god, baby,  _ yes,” _ he sobs. 

Mycroft frees a hand and swipes it through the slippery mess on Greg’s lower half, and then closes the slickened palm over Greg’s cock. 

_ “Oh!” _

Mycroft jerks him fast and furious and licks him with no mercy, and Greg is sure he’s going to explode in three seconds  _ at most _ \- and then Mycroft stops. He pulls his hand away and presses his damp forehead to Greg’s inner thigh.

“Please,” Greg grits out between his teeth. 

“No.” 

Mycroft returns to the space between Greg’s cheeks, lavishing him with attention and pressure, getting him obscenely wet with his mouth. 

“Put something  _ in me,  _ at least,” Greg begs. “Just. One. Just one.” 

“One is never enough,” Mycroft chides him, but he does pull away again and after a moment he pressed inside with one spit-wet finger. 

Greg can’t grind down, not with his legs tied up and spread open. “But—” he whines, frustrated that he can’t simply chase the sensation, twist himself in search of the perfect spot.  _ “Harder.” _

Mycroft laughs again and simply thrusts gently with that single finger, glancing pressure over Greg’s prostate making him dizzy but not accomplishing much more than that. Mycroft touches Greg’s cock fleetingly, fingers dancing up it’s length and then back down. 

Greg’s shaking. His arms tremble, and his shoulders, from tension and a distant ache; his jaw is chattering when he doesn't bite down hard, clenching his teeth to hold still; his legs don’t feel like part of his body anymore, and he knows that when they’re finally released, they will tremble, too. 

Mycroft gives him a second finger and twists cruelly over Greg’s cock, root to tip, with the other hand. Just once. 

Greg shouts, eyes squeezing shut. 

“You are nearly  _ purple _ with it,” Mycroft murmurs. “You poor man.” 

Greg is so tightly wound that his eyes water, and tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “Please.” 

Mycroft gives him another screwing stroke with his hand. Greg shouts again, and then sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, trying to focus on the dull pain of that, instead of how badly he  _ needs  _ to come. 

“What was it you said?” Mycroft twists and scissors his fingers. “Harder?”

Greg sobs, feeling on the edge of hysterical even as he nods. He’s not sure harder will actually feel better, but he’ll take  _ anything.  _

Mycroft fucks him hard with his fingers. Greg thinks he hears him spit to keep them slick, and that— that fucks him up, that sends molten lava down his spine to pool in his lower back. It’s so  _ dirty,  _ and it gets him right in the gut when Mycroft does something dirty. God, he just missed the sight of Mycroft, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, waistcoat half unbuttoned over his crisp shirt, tie still on and everything,  _ spitting _ on his fingers as they disappear into Greg’s ass. 

He nearly loses it then, unsure of what will happen if he  _ does.  _ Probably a lot of thrashing and screaming. But he can’t come, he needs more.

“Look at me,” Mycroft says. 

Greg can’t. 

Mycroft shifts forward and grasps Greg by the chin, yanks him from where he’s had his head flung to one side. “Look at me.” 

Greg forces his eyes open. 

“There you are,” Mycroft breathes, his face broken open in awe. It’s too much. “Beautiful, just perfect. Stay with me, now. You’re going to come soon.” 

Greg sobs and gasps his pleas. 

“I know, love. I know, I know.” Mycroft’s fingers never stop their relentless fucking into him, and now he curls them. 

Greg isn’t sure he’s even human in this moment. The sound he makes isn’t.

“Are you ready?”

Greg shakes his head despite himself. At this point he’s terrified of how it’s going to feel when Mycroft finally lets him come. Too much. Or, unthinkably, it could be  _ not enough.  _ It’s been days and days - weeks - and Greg is so— 

“You’re ready,” Mycroft murmurs, soft. “Yes, you are. I’ll wait for you to tell me, but I know that you are. You’re so good, Gregory, so good for me.” 

Greg takes a deep breath, struggles to hold it but does, and then he swallows hard, trying to pull himself together. He nods. 

“So good,” Mycroft repeats. 

A few things happen very quickly. Mycroft gets a hand around Greg’s windpipe again, and he squeezes carefully even as he’s fucking two fingers mercilessly against Greg’s prostate. He squeezes harder, even as he shifts and moves back enough to lower himself between Greg’s thighs again. His hand tightens and releases in a pulsing motion, and his fingers push mercilessly, massaging him from the inside, and then his mouth engulfs Greg’s cock. 

The world explodes. Greg’s legs try to unfold and are held tight. His arms are desperate to reach and grab at Mycroft, but they can’t. It hurts,  _ it hurts,  _ he’s devastated that he can’t  _ move,  _ and his wrists are chafing against rope and his muscles clench, hard, all over. It feels as if his body throbs with the grip around his throat.   
  
Greg babbles through it, words little more than choked breaths, and he has no idea what he’s saying. Mycroft never stops his relentless work against Greg’s prostate, and does not still his mouth or tongue for a second. 

When Greg begs him to stop, ears ringing now, body crackling with static and trembling all over, Mycroft stops. He surges immediately up for a kiss, hard and almost punishing. He releases Greg’s throat and strokes sweetly over his hair, instead.

Greg convulses at the taste of himself, of the traces of come still left, that Mycroft hadn’t swallowed down before slamming their mouths together. He wishes his arms were free. All he wants is to throw them around Mycroft, bury his hands in his hair and  _ pull. _ That, and his legs. He wants to wrap his legs completely around the man’s hips and hold him tightly. 

“I love you,” Greg says through tears he can’t help when Mycroft pulls away to let him breathe. “Mycroft, I—” He shudders into another sob. 

Mycroft shushes him gently. “It’s alright,” he says softly. “You’re perfectly fine.”

Greg swallows the momentary panic when Mycroft moves away, sitting up and then back on his heels. 

“I’m only untying your legs, I’m not leaving.”

When Greg’s legs are free, he doesn't move them, waiting to be posed all over again. Mycroft stretches first the left and then the right, gently guiding each leg unbent, massaging the backs of Greg’s knees and the outsides of his thighs where a little cramping is trying to take hold. 

Once his legs are functional, Greg jerks his chin. “Come up here?”

Mycroft obliges him, and Greg is grateful. He doesn't want to play games about this. He just wants to be kissed. Mycroft delivers, and lets Greg wrap his legs around him like he’s been dying to do. He frames Greg’s face in his hands and kisses him, deep and slow. 

When he pulls away, he leaves Greg with a sharp nip to his bottom lip, and then to his chin. 

“Thank you,” Greg murmurs. 

Mycroft kisses him once more before moving away again. Greg wants to hold him, keep him there, but he lets his thighs go loose. Lets him go, for now. 

By the time Mycroft moves off the bed to untie his wrists, Greg has his breathing mostly under control. 

“Alright?” Mycroft checks, slowly guiding Greg’s joined hands to his chest. “Pain?”

“Nn-hn,” Greg says in his throat. He shakes his head so his meaning is clear. 

Mycroft’s smile is softer now, and he releases Greg’s wrists next, replacing the rope with his fingers, circling Greg’s wrists, massaging his pulse points and the space between his thumb and forefinger. He gently guides Greg’s hands in a rotation, stretching the wrist joints. 

He moves again, kneels beside Greg with their hands clasped together. Mycroft brings them up and brushes his mouth over Greg’s knuckles. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

Greg looks up at him and chews on his smile.  _ This _ bit was what he wanted. He had wanted to feel the burn in his muscles in the moment after he was free to move again, He had wanted to feel warmed through and through, full of all the good chemicals, as Mycroft massaged aches and traced fingers over rope marks. He had wanted to be wrung out, thoroughly used, and satisfied. This exact moment had been, for him, the entire point. 

“Close enough,” he teases, because he knows that Mycroft already knows the rest.

“Lucky for you I’m quite exhausted,” Mycroft mutters. “Or I’d have you over my knee.”

“Like hell,” Greg shoots back. “You’re desperate for a cuddle.”

It makes Mycroft scoff and mutter to himself, but it’s true. 

When Greg thinks of all the months they spent together at first, the way Mycroft had taken forever to even sleep beside him, to kiss him on the mouth, to touch him outside of the context of sex… knowing now that Mycroft Holmes is actually an irredeemble cuddle slut and needy about skin after they play, it all seems just a bit tragic. 

Greg demands that Mycroft help him sit up, though all his body wants is to lie there and tremble. Once he’s upright, Greg turns and reaches for Mycroft’s buttons. 

“My hands are shaking,” he says on a laugh. “So don’t be lazy, and help me.” 

Mycroft’s fingers brush over Greg’s briefly, then go to the top button, working down until he and Greg’s hands meet in the middle and pull off the shirt together.

Greg can’t help himself. He ducks in, presses his head to the center of Mycroft’s chest, and snakes his arms around to squeeze him tightly. 

He can feel the momentary surprise in Mycroft’s body, the way he stiffens for a split second, his hands hovering, before he touches Greg back, hands sure. Even after all this time, he always seems surprised that there’s going to be cuddling, too, but once his body remembers, he soaks it up like a sponge. 

Greg finds himself entirely covered by the man once he’s been stripped out of the rest of his clothes. Mycroft’s fingers lace through Greg’s and he presses Greg’s hands into the mattress on either side of his head, bracket’s Greg’s hips with his own knees, straddles him and nuzzles up under his jaw. 

Greg feels himself practically glowing from all the ways he’s being held down, even now that he could move, could get some leverage if he really wanted to. 

He’s just happy to stay where Mycroft wants him, and while that’s true any other time as well, there’s something especially good about it now that he has the choice back. 

It’s what works about their entire relationship, and they both know it. 

Greg lets Mycroft reposition him again, guiding Greg’s arms up around himself, releasing his hands in favor of tipping Greg’s head back to expose more throat to kiss. Greg takes the opportunity to sink fingers into Mycroft’s hair and scritch gently. 

It’s quiet and soft and ephemeral. 

And then Mycroft moves to kiss Greg’s neck again and Greg stretches invitingly for him. Mycroft changes course slightly, his lips brushing Greg’s ear. 

He whispers, “Who do you belong to?” 

And Greg’s grin could break his face. He can’t stop it enough to answer, so he simply nuzzles at Mycroft, smiling like a loon. 

“This answer is acceptable,” Mycroft says drily, and then kisses Greg’s grin away.

  


*

  


A couple of days later, Greg passes Mycroft in the kitchen on his way to their bedroom to shower and change after a run. 

“Ooh, crossword?” Greg peeks over his shoulder. “Hey, 12-Across, same clue I got a few weeks ago. Should be  _ prestidigitation.”  _

Mycroft shoots him an  _ oh-please _ look over his shoulder. 

Greg just makes a face at him and keeps on moving. Yeah, he’s well aware that Mycroft Holmes can finish a crossword without his help. He deserves his moments, still. 

He makes his way down the hall to their room, already stripping his t-shirt over his head as he goes. He pitches it into the hamper, and steps out of his track bottoms beside it, tossing them in, too. 

The bathroom door is... Locked. 

Greg scrunches his eyebrows and jiggles the handle. It’s definitely locked - from the inside. The only way a person could manage it was to turn the lock on the inside handle on purpose, and then shut the door. 

Odd, that. 

Greg uses one of Mycroft’s tie pins to pop the lock open from this side, sending up a prayer that he won’t damage the bloody thing in the process - it probably costs more than half of Greg’s wardrobe. 

But then, once inside, he finds the shower stall taped over with…

Greg laughs, still confused. It’s caution tape, and it’s criss-crossed over his  _ shower door.  _

What the hell is that supposed to mean? 

He turns to scan the bedroom for a clue, and finds himself startled - he will later deny the high-pitched yelp - to be chest-to-chest with Mycroft, who grabs him instantly by the hips. 

“You smell fucking divine,” his voice says, all silky even over the profanity. 

Greg clutches at him, catching his breath from the adrenaline rush of being so thoroughly snuck up on. “Couldn’t’ve just asked me not to shower before you do whatever it is you’re planning to do to me?”

“Now,” Mycroft says, the words muffled in Greg’s sweaty neck. “What would be the fun in that?”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Just in case, here are some content notes!!
> 
> Bondage - wrists and legs  
> Breathplay - Mycroft squeezes Greg's throat, but does not cut off his air completely at any time, nor is it ever described as painful or frightening.  
> Orgasm control/denial/etc - Greg follows instructions not to have an orgasm without Mycroft for a period of many days, and then Mycroft teases him in bed.  
> Mild pain/sensation play - Scratching and biting, no broken skin, no intense pain.


End file.
